


Silk and Lace

by Mad_Madame_Mim



Series: Fallen London OC Stories [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Lingerie, is getting stuff before it exists, the best thing about devils messing with time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-07 14:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18412937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Madame_Mim/pseuds/Mad_Madame_Mim
Summary: Madame Miriamne D'Marchand tries to surprise her husband-to-be, the Intrepid Deacon, with some lovely lingerie. It doesn't, quite, go to plan.





	Silk and Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing fluff? I'm shocked, too.

                Among friends, when wine flowed freely, Miriamne was more want to joke that she enjoyed ‘wearing scandal like perfume.’ During the sobering morning after, she would remind those comrades that she was uninterested in honeymooning in the Tomb Colonies.

                But in that misty, honey-scented time between those two states of being, when her daring outweighed her caution, and the Affectionate Devil was offering the use of his private tailor, Sinning Jenny the use of her Parlour, and the air and her skin felt alive with night and idiocy, the Incorrigible Bluestocking was not one to think about the humbling dust and austerity of the Colonies. Especially when she felt how soft the lace was, against her skin.

                “Where’s the rest of it?” At least her mouth seemed attached to some sensibility. But the Quiet Deviless looked to the nun, knowingly. “Oh, that’s all there is, love.” Her voice was even more honey and Sulphur. “It’s a design not yet seen, in your London.”

                Miriamne raised a thin brow. “Hellish make, like your suit?” She asked of the Affectionate Devil, who curled his lip up over a delicate fang, in response. Green eyes glittering amusedly, he laughed, striding forward to place his wide-brimmed hat on her head. “Yes. Though I don’t think pinstripes would suit you.”

                “You think silver and yellow are flattering mixtures,” she countered, eyes on the paired scraps of dark silk. Black ribbons trailed through Jenny’s fingers, dancing just above the carpet.

                Lips hot as brass and soft as sin slid along her ear. “You looked lovely in naught but silver bands with those yellow eyes of yours.”

                The Quiet Deviless snorted, muttering, “Losing your touch.”

                Casting a flat stare in her direction, the devil sniffed, straightening his bowtie. “I stand by what I said. Mim agrees with me. Don’t you, darling?” He asked, using her nickname.

                “I did look good in silver,” the spirifer replied. The devil clapped his hands. “I’ll take that as a triumph.” Miriamne managed not to giggle when the deviless whispered to Jenny, something that sounded very much like, _“He needs one at least once a century.”_

                “Still…” that sensibility clung to her brain with a sluggish but adamant strength, ruining the soft afterglow of the honey dream-like air. “The Constabulary will clap me in irons for wearing these… undergarments.”

                “The ones that aren’t busy with my gals and lads, here, are bribed well to keep their nose out of my business.” Jenny’s voice was calm and cool as the Zee, and just as unyielding. Miriamne blinked, owlishly. “You bribed them for me?”

                Jenny chortled. “Do I look like a charity house, girl? Wines keeps them at bay _every_ night.” A flash of a grin. “If that so happens to be helpful, tonight, then that’s merely a little bonus.”

                Dark silk and surprisingly soft lace were pressed into her hands, causing that sensible voice to fade, a bit. “I… don’t even know how to wear this. How do the pieces stay in place?” She shouldn’t, really, be asking that. She, really, should be headed home, to sober up and get back to planning out flower arrangements and guest lists and silk for the gown…

                She found herself rubbing the soft material between ungloved fingers. The Quiet Deviless knew she was a very tactile sort. No doubt she’d had every intention of spilling that wine on her gloves, earlier in the night, to make sure she had to go without them. Still, as she chuckled, softly, looping an arm through her elbow, Miriamne couldn’t help but smile at the warm nuzzle she gave her shoulder. “I can show you how the ties work. It’ll be like unwrapping a gift for your little Deacon.”

                “Aww, I adore when she blushes.” Miriamne squinted at the grinning devil, but he ignored her obvious demand for silence, adding, “You always do when talking of the boy. It’s sweet.”

                “I do believe she is plotting to stab you,” Jenny opined. “Oh, just stitch his lips, together, pet,” the deviless requested, already steering her past the other two, into a room blocked off by thick curtains. “He’ll whine louder if you damage his cravat.”

                The devil’s smug countenance faded into a pout when Jenny held him back from following the pair. “Ah, ah. We need fresh eyes to appraise our work.” She ducked behind the curtain to join the other two, women.

                “Why do I have to be the one to wait?” He called out. Jenny’s grin flashed in the dark. “Because it’s my Parlour, boy.”

                A grumpy _harrumph_ , followed by the striking of a match and puff of a cigar, were the only answer.

                Miriamne found herself undressed faster than when she’d had a certain liaison upon the Empress’s throne. Though, for all that there was much less material to place back onto her body, redressing took more time than during that affair.

                And she was just as likely headed to the Colonies, for this, as well.

                The curtain loomed with the thick severity of a society aunt and felt just as judgmental. She wanted to rush through it, and get this game over with, only to have Jenny catch her arm, sliding a long, black frock over her shoulders. “Presentation, girl. Just like at the boarding school.”

                “You often send your students to seduce Deacons?” The deviless purred, looking both startled and impressed when Jenny shrugged, and nodded.

                Miriamne sighed, not looking back at either of them, but only at the curtain. A louche challenge trailed like smoke from the other side. “Come out, my toasty tasty.” Snorting, despite herself, the brash woman raised her head, red hair loose around her shoulders, golden eyes glinting at the dare, and slid one foot through the curtain.

                “Oh, the stockings were a splendid choice, if I do say so, myself.” Came the devil’s appreciative call.

                “You chose them,” Jenny reminded him.

                “I know,” he responded, proudly, as a bare hand, marked with a flame tattoo, began to, slowly, drag aside the curtain. If Miriamne had been worried that she was out of practice with this sort of display, the rapacity burning in those green eyes as they swept down her form, told her she had nothing to worry about.

                “He should be here, on the hour,” Jenny announced.

                Miriamne swallowed. Okay, so maybe she had _one_ worry.

 

***

                She might be French, but the Incorrigible Bluestocking rarely said no to some good, Dutch Courage, before doing something particularly foolish. Although, she was thankful for the mint candy the Quiet Deviless had given her, afterwards, to ease the scent on her breath.

                It was just enough wine to keep her from being sensible, any longer. The subtle burn on her cheeks was stubbornly chocked up to the ‘good luck’ kisses both devils had given her. _Madame_ Miriamne Iphigenia D’Marchand was not one to get worked up over something as innocuous as a date. The red would fade, in the cool air, soon. Surely.

                Feeling more daring than sensible, she stood outside the Parlour doors, clutching the frock’s pocket-linings, tightly, to ward off the chill. She could feel so much of the wool lining on her skin that she had to remind herself she was wearing anything at all, under the dark coat.

                The itchy coat felt like a secret, and she the enigma, within. Previous worries about her body scars were melting away each time she, unconsciously or consciously, rubbed her legs, together, luxuriating in how soft the scant bits of fabric, felt. The parts of the coat that dragged over the devilish outfit made silken shivers dance down her spine and thighs. Inhibitions dulled to foolhardy levels, the Incorrigible Bluestocking was nearly giddy as a schoolboy on seeing a bared leg for the first time.

Excitement having long drowned out caution or worries, she allowed herself a moment to imagine her husband-to-be’s reaction to unwrapping his “gift.” Mind already on choosing a comfortably private chaise inside, once Percival arrived, she-

                “Sorry for taking so long; the Bishop needed help with preparing the hymnals to be handed out.” She jumped, despite herself, internally berating letting her guard down, righting herself like a spooked cat at the sight of Percy’s soft smile.

                All at once, she almost forgot the entire plan, and, more importantly, that the coat was unbuttoned, and only being held together by her hands in her pockets and a loose string at her collar, having to stop herself from simply wrapping her arms around him in greeting. Shameful enough, in public, without the added bonus of revealing her skin to the London streets.

                Not that she hadn’t done that, before… but, really, being exiled made wedding planning more strenuous than Miriamne wanted to deal with. And she’d be perturbed if a certain Smuggler decided her outfit was for _his_ benefit, as he was wont to do.

                God, she was a lost cause. The Duchess would be so disappointed in how her heart lit at seeing Percival Marchmont approaching, face splendid with welcome. In his clerical shirt, cossack and collar, the Intrepid Deacon looked so far out of place in the nearly liquid light from the Parlour, that she had the sudden image of the fumbling lambkin she’d thought he resembled when she first met him.

                Normally, she would have classified him as an easy target, innocent and too kind for his own good, mentally filing him alongside Salt Weasels in levels of naivety. She would have, and had, originally, gauged his likelihood of being worth it to use, before deciding whether to send him away, so she wouldn’t be forced to watch that sweetness get blotted out by the darkness of the world.

                But like some trite, dimestore novel, she’d found herself less and less inclined to push him aside, and far more protective as the days wore on in their investigation of the Chandler Saint. Confusingly, for all that she didn’t care one whit about his physical innocence, Miriamne found herself wanting to keep that kindness whole and hale. And, more selfishly, nearby.

                Thankfully, he seemed perfectly willing to wrap her in an embrace when she didn’t initiate one. “I must smell like a winery,” she muttered, self-consciousness rebelling against the drink, nose buried just under the white stripe on his collar. His own sank into her hair, sniffing noisily. “A bit,” he admitted, cheekily. She wriggled in silent protest, though not enough to pull free. “And rose perfume,” he added, softly, causing Miriamne to tense up.

               She’d forgotten that she, quite likely, still smelled of the Quiet Deviless’s perfume, from when she helped her dress. The memory of Percival’s brother flashed across her mind like a corsair’s charge. The Incorrigible Bluestocking loved roses, and always had. Even underground, she had a dream of creating a rosarium to rival Empress Josephine’s, at Malmaison.

               But the knowledge that Percival must have spent years watching Hellish roses tear his brother’s skin from the inside out, had made her incredibly careful not to force him to be near the plants. When she went down to the greenhouse the Embassy had granted her, she always bathed, thoroughly, with lilac and mushroom soaps, to hide the scent, before meeting with him.

               Percival must have felt her stiffening posture, for his arms squeezed all the tighter, knowing full well her habit of bolting from uncomfortable situations. “It’s lovely,” he soothed, voice low, as if calming a wild marsh wolf. Her posture didn’t ease.

               Voice still even, he mumbled against her hair, “My brother’s war wound made me hate roses, for years.” Cringing, yellow eyes screwing shut at the proof of her fear, she started when pale fingers slid under her chin, dragging it up until he could look her in the eyes.

               She could tug away, and easily. She was much stronger than he was. But Miriamne held still, as wary as that wolf awaiting a snare. She ignored the confused look of a passing sailor, obviously curious at seeing a Deacon embracing a woman outside of the Parlour of Virtue.

               Percival’s expression was unreadable, but his voice never wavered. Nor did his eyes, that stared her down without shame or fear or loathing, like she always secretly feared she’d view in them, one day. “I hated roses to the point of destroying my mother’s prized General Jacks.” He grinned, ruefully. “The name didn’t help. I didn’t want to be reminded of war.” He sighed, eyes shifting away and into a memory. “I sawed them all down, at the base of the trunks. Every last shrub.”

               All the heat in her cheeks seemed to have fled, as well as her clever tongue. She opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure what to say, and uncomfortably aware that she resembled a deep Zee fish.

               But he still refused to release her, steadfastly ignoring the stares they were receiving, searching for words of his own. “My mother knew it was me, but she was kind enough not to call me out. The gardener was less willing to overlook the trespass and I was forced to help dig up the root balls. Roses have very stubborn roots.”

               Despite herself, she choked on a laugh, at the image of little Percy having to dig out tap roots. Roses were a pain to start growing, but once they did, they were just as hard to uproot. She tried to swallow the sound, not wanting to sound insulting, only to find him bending his nose back to the crown of her hair, tucking her face into a chest that expanded on a slow inhale, as if memorizing her scent.

               “You were wearing one, in your hair, when we met,” he continued. She hadn’t remembered, though it was entirely likely she’d done so to tease Bishop Southwark for calling her for help. They hadn’t always been too friendly. “And on the train…” God, why did his little hum make her feel so giddy?

               He was quiet, for a good bit, happy to just stand and hold her close, before he finally joked, “I’ll make a confession, to you,” tricking another chuffed laugh out of her. “You’re giving me many better memories to apply to roses, love.”

_Love_. That word, somehow, made her gut churn and flutter all at once. A sensation both disquieting and addicting. “I’m glad,” she admitted, truthfully, though it was muffled by his coat. She could fathom no reason to leave where she was nestled, just then.

               He was… warm. Not like the burning skin of a devil, but the cozy warmth of a home under a sturdy roof. He felt _safe_ , and Miriamne had to admit that she’d never felt that way around any of her other lovers. Not fully. There was always a catch, always a reflection of the same critical weighing and measuring her own mind had used so callously. Always a sense of treating any affair like a deal to gain something.

               Percival didn’t feel that way. Should she be frightened of that? Probably. But, no matter how deep she dug into her vast stores of paranoia, Miriamne just… couldn’t.

               She was a lost cause. If Jenny was watching, right now, she’d laugh herself silly-

               Oh. Yes. Jenny. The “gift.” Huh.

               Blinking, Miriamne finally shifted in such a way that he released his grip, albeit reluctantly, settling for placing his hands on her shoulders. Well. This was awkward.

               Early on, on meeting Jenny, the Incorrigible Bluestocking had been hauling her leg up and placing it over the Jovial Contrarian’s shoulder, to prove the merit of wearing men’s clothing, for ease of movement. The chair-bound conversationalist had been shocked silent for a good minute, after that, and spent the evening more subdued, thoroughly distracted from his debates with Jenny’s staff and customers. Jenny had given her a bottle of Broken Giant in thanks.

               And now, because of a hug and talk of roses, the same woman who had nearly dusted the presiding major’s nose with her pant’s leg, was feeling shy and unsure if she wanted to go on with her ‘unwrapping.’

               Percival looked worried at her silence. Before he could speak, though, she blurted, without any of her usual charisma, “I was hoping to show you something, inside.” At his curious expression, she dredged up the last vestigial courage of the Dutch, glancing back at the door to the Parlour. Inside, blurry shapes moved in elegant, tempting patterns, behind fogged glass.

               Meanwhile, outside were people still shocked at the sight of a man of the cloth embracing a woman. Scandal was already in the air, thick as rose musk.

               Inside, her friends would be waiting, ready to cajole and tease them both, mercilessly.

               Mind made up, the fiery-haired woman, finally, admitted, “I had a surprise for you, that had nothing to do with roses.” Percy’s curious smile remained, as she shook her hands inside the deep pockets, loosening the coat front. The Deacon removed his own hands, politely, as the spirifer forced herself to move slowly, reaching a hand up to tug free the cord near her throat.

               When she did, the frock shifted, more fully, open. Ignoring the startled hisses and a couple catcalls from passerby, Miriamne let the coat drift down her back, slinking over her arms to reveal the dark, silken garments, underneath.

               The ensemble was made of two sections of silk; one over her breasts, and the other over her bottom. Lace as thin as gossamer and soft as damask hung over the paired pieces, including a stiff collar of lace along her throat. Yards and yards of ribbons were strung in a zigzag pattern, between the upper and lower garments, secured with loops on both.

               It left the scars along her abdomen -especially the scar of Feducci’s lance on her chest- very visible, to her chagrin. She wasn’t even wearing a corset, underneath, meaning pale skin caught the light from the Parlour windows, and gooseflesh spread as a cool breeze slid over it all.

               The wind made the hanging ribbons swirl and dance, as dark as the pupils of the Intrepid Deacon’s eyes. Her thin lips began to curl up at the sight of his mouth opening, her eyes becoming hooded as she purred, happily-

               Right before they bolted wide as he rushed forward, grabbing her coat together. “You’ll freeze!” He cried, panicked.

               The Incorrigible Bluestocking blinked, in confusion. “Did you see the outfit?”

               “Yes,” he agreed, buttoning her, securely, inside. “You’ll catch a chill.”

               “Percy,” she tried, again, trying to pour her persuasive talents back into her voice, hands reaching up to begin undoing the buttons all over, again. “I’m sure you can help keep me, plenty, warm…”

               He nodded, releasing her, and the woman gave him a, slightly tired, but amused look, at finally understanding her meaning-

               She blinked, again, when he reached up to his throat. “Hold this, please,” he requested, sliding the thick, white band from his collar, and handing it to her. “Percy,” she tried, once more, only to choke a bit, on her next words, as he began to undo his cossack in the middle of the street. “I meant-”

               But it took him surprisingly little time to undo the myriad buttons trailing down to his waist, revealing the crisp, white undershirt and waist corset he wore, underneath it. She went quiet, watching as he undid it, further still, until his night-trimmed slacks began drinking in the light of the Parlour.

               Okay, so maybe she didn’t quite mind the view, as he shrugged off the cossack, or his scent surrounding her when he placed it around her shoulders. But the fact that his only reaction to her body had been to worry about how cold she was, was, frankly, embarrassing.

               It brought back all those biting words Cesar would pepper her with, of how lacking her body was, how she could barely interest a virgin boy…

               Voice subdued, even as his arm wrapped around her, the dejected _Madame_ muttered, “The silk will be crushed… I should at least return it to Jenny.”

               But his arm only tightened, leading her back towards the Embassy. “That will be unfortunate,” he chirped, as she settled into watching where each foot landed on the dark cobbles, fingers grasping his white collar, tight enough to bite into her hand. The more she could concentrate on outer discomfort, the easier it was to ignore the inner pain his innocent care had caused.

               “Because I was hoping to crush the silk, myself,” he outright _growled_ into her ear, before standing back at full height at her shocked expression. “In the Sanctum,” he added, solemnly. “Where it’s warmer.”

               He smiled, down at her, cheeky as can be. “Where I can enjoy unwrapping this gift, in a more private space.”


End file.
